


#AngelAss

by htbthomas



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Crossover, Crossovering Exchange, F/M, Gen, Humor, Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4539159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/pseuds/htbthomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>hey #angelass. u stay in 2nite. losers @work tryna sneak a pic. </i> </p><p>Whatever the rest of the squad's plans to win their get-a-photo-of-Daredevil bet are, Gina’s don’t include stalking the alleys of Hell’s Kitchen for a photo she’s already got.</p>
            </blockquote>





	#AngelAss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weaselett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weaselett/gifts).



> Set in some amorphous time near the end of S2 before Holt got his new job and Jake and Amy were together (or out to the squad).
> 
> Thanks to Ladysilver for helping me break the story and to Ghostcat for looking this over and easing my NYC worries. :)
> 
>  **Edit 3/2016:** LOL, the beginning of Daredevil 2.06 totally backs this story up. ♥

“Do you think he patrols the streets at night, waiting to pounce on evil doers?” Jake is perched on the corner of Amy’s desk. “He probably has some sort of catchphrase, like,” —Jake drops his voice an octave— “‘I’ll send you to hell.’” 

“Who says the Daredevil is even a ‘he’?” Rosa’s voice is flat. She points to Jake’s copy of the _New York Bulletin_ that has an artist’s rendering of New York’s latest vigilante sensation. “All they’ve got is some blurry photos and surveillance video.”

“Actually, my friend at the 18th says that eyewitness statements all describe a male voice and physique…” Amy trails off nervously. “But of course, it _could_ be a girl.”

“Oo, if it _is_ a girl, do you think she’d be into Thai?” Charles says. “You know, like as a... thank you?”

“Who’s getting Thai?” Scully asks, perking up from a nap.

“Your friend at the 18th know of any openings?” Rosa asks. “‘Cause I’m so bored I’m starting to think going for Thai is a good idea.”

“Seriously. Sorry, Boyle.” Jake says, then whines, “It’s so unfair! Why does Hell’s Kitchen get to have the Daredevil, and all Brooklyn gets is ‘Super Dave’?”

Gina glances up from _Crossy Road_. So what if it was a slow crime week—actually, the beginning of the _second_ week with no cases to investigate—surely they could find something better to do than fangirl over Daredevil. Another second and she is going to have to actually _do_ something, like with that bitch who dared to neg her over her Poppy Lissiman clutch on the subway and limped off a stop later.

“I’m gonna clip your vocal cords if you don’t stop whining, Jake,” Rosa growls, and that makes Gina smile. Just a little. One corner, then it’s back to hyperfocus on getting her Hipster Whale across the train tracks. 

Jake opens his mouth and then settles back. Good Jake, he knows when he’s outmatched. 

Of course, Charles pipes up, “I started a new series in my food blog for Hell’s Kitchen eateries. I’m calling it ‘Hell of a Good Meal’.” Gina makes a face, and the hand not holding her phone curls around her stapler. Charles goes on. “I’ve been going as late after dark as I can, hoping to catch a glimpse… Tonight I’m hitting that tapas place on 10th.”

Scully’s head pops up again from his nap, drool shining in one corner. “Tapas?” Hitchcock is already starting to put on his coat.

“Go back to sleep, Scully,” Amy says gently, and he obeys. Hitchcock just shrugs and takes off his coat—and his button down for good measure. Then Amy stage-whispers, though it might as well be a foghorn, “You guys, I think I saw the Daredevil last week.”

Everyone but Gina—and Scully, it’s not about food—freezes and turns their attention to Amy.

“Seriously,” Amy says, her eyes wide, enjoying the attention. “I heard this sound above me when I was walking back from my 'Learning to Delegate' seminar, and I looked up. This shadow passed right above me, two stories up, leaping the space between buildings. My heart nearly stopped.”

“And then you heard a hiss and a yowl,” Rosa says. Amy deflates a little, the others relax. “Seriously, the Daredevil is a vigilante. You think _she’s_ sneaking around on rooftops instead of kicking criminal ass?”

“Hey,” Gina calls over to the group. She’s unlocked the new character for the day and tweeted her score. She can spare these losers a moment. “First of all,” she says, letting go of the stapler and holding up a dark red manicured fingernail, “it’s not ‘the Daredevil’ it’s just ‘Daredevil,’ you’d think your little fan club would know that by now. Secondly,” —the next nail is black— “this conversation is so boring I _welcome_ the flames of hell. And, thirdly,” —a white nail comes up— “I guarantee none of you can get a glimpse, completely forget even a blurry photo. Otherwise I’m going to have to billy club your asses so hard your dogwalker won’t recognize you. God.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” Jake says, sitting up with interest.

“I dare say, even a bet,” Charles adds. “Get a photo of the Dare—excuse me, _Dare_ devil—or Gina will bring the pain.” He actually sounds like he wants to lose.

“Hashtag ewnope,” Gina says, pushing back from her desk in disgust. “And you are _paying_ for my hypnotherapist bill to get that image out of my mind.” She also needs a mental TUMS to get rid of the acid reflux memory of the night he pretended to be a ‘bad boy.’

“Gladly.” Charles even bows to her. Uck. Maybe she’s gotta chug a bottle of full-on for-real Pepto Bismol.

“No, but guys, this is a good idea. Best picture of Daredevil by Monday gets to…” Jake snaps his fingers rapidly. “...pass on the next boring case?”

“—or get first pick!”

“—take everyone to their favorite eatery!”

“I don’t call that winning, if you’re paying—”

“Who’s paying?”

“—no door-knocking for a week.”

“—a month! And make it paperwork.”

“—tickets to a ballgame!”

“—or the ballet. You heard me.”

“—should be winner’s choice—within reason.”

The voices stop as Jake holds up his hands. “Yes! Winner’s choice. Let’s say, whatever it is should be worth… a hundred dollars or a week’s time. Good?”

Most nod their heads, except Charles, who mutters, “That’s going to limit my options _severely_...” Then he shrugs. “Fine.”

Jake claps his hands together. “It’s settled! Now who’s in?” The chorus goes around the room, even Hitchcock putting in for his sleeping partner (“Hey, if food’s on the line…”). 

Amy turns to Gina. “What about you? You threw down the gauntlet. You want in?”

Before Gina can scoff and decline, Jake sneers, “Forget it. Daredevil doesn’t post his selfies on Instagram.”

Oh, hell no, she cannot let that stand. Gina takes a couple steps toward Jake, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “Little boy, don’t you forget what _I_ can post on Instagram. Fourth of July, 1987—”

“—Whoa ho! Okay!” he says, dancing back. “Gina’s in! But watch out, all of you. Peralta’s got a plan!”

“I see that my detectives are putting these quiet days to good use.”

The group turns to see Captain Holt, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. His face shows no emotion, but he glances to the _New York Bulletin_ on Jake’s desk. He’s _pi-hisssssss-ed_.

“Sir,” Amy says, nearly tripping backwards to distance herself from the damning evidence. “We were just—”

Her words cut off at the sight of Terry, carrying six large file boxes in his arms as if they were packs of tissues. “Cold cases, anyone?”

There’s a round of moans from almost all of the detectives, except Amy. “I’ll take two, sir.” She rushes to take the top file box from Terry’s arms. The other boxes are dropped with a final sort of thud on each desk, the last right on top of the newspaper.

“For each day there are no major crimes reported, I want to see progress on at least one cold case. Surely between the six of you, this is possible.” 

Jake grimaces but doesn’t argue. Rosa shrugs and sits at her desk. Charles sighs and pulls a file out of his box. Scully and Hitchcock look at their boxes with consternation, and Amy swoops in. “I said I’d take two.” The consternation lessens. Slightly.

Holt turns to Terry. “Let us continue our strategic planning session.” He nods at Gina. “Hold all my calls.”

She wasn’t answering them before, so that’s easy. As the door shuts behind them with a click, her shoulders relax. If the bet had gone forward, she would have had to—

“That bet is still _totally_ on, right?” Jake asks while pretending to read.

“Oh, absolutely.” / “Pshh, he comes out at night, on our off hours.” / “I’m between Chopped marathons anyway.”—and so on.

Everything settles down—each making their plan of attack in secret. Gina turns away, frowning. Then she sends off a quick text to a contact only marked as “AA:”

 _hey #angelass. u stay in 2nite. losers @work tryna sneak a pic._

Whatever their plans are, Gina’s don’t include stalking the alleys of Hell’s Kitchen for a photo she’s already got. Now, dancing at Pacha? Hitting The Hardware Bar? Or her favorite new place…? That sounds more like it. She shrugs and starts a game of _2048_.

* * *

_Two months ago_

“Who spends the night in? Losers!” Gina cries to the sky, swirling under the dim streetlights with a complex series of dance moves that should make her posse gasp in awe. But they just laugh, too drunk off their asses to notice. Lightweights. Gina’s good to hit at least two more clubs tonight—Hell’s Kitchen has some decent places, for New York. She is so over Brooklyn, the way it’s turned into some hipster’s wet dream. Hell’s Kitchen is where it’s at—earthy, dirty, authentic. 

“Catch you girls later!” She waves off their protests and sets off on her own. Maybe she’ll look for some dive bar instead, pick up an electrician or a dock worker, a guy with rough hands and rough manners. She runs her fingers through her hair to muss it a little, shake out some of the glitter and hairspray, and checks herself in a window of a barred shop. Just as fabulous as ever. It’s hard to tone down the amazing factor. Hell, why try?

She hears a sound a couple streets away, a scream that cuts through the sound of traffic. And not the good kind. Uh uh, no one is spoiling that girl’s right to party. Gina wraps the strap of her clutch around her wrist once, twice, until the studded leather rests in her palm like the world's most stylish brass knuckles. Her stilettos will serve as a shiv in a pinch, too. She sprints off toward the sound.

In the alley, a girl cowers against the brick wall, her whimpers loud in the enclosed space. But not as loud as the grunts of the muggers, desperately struggling against… Gina doesn’t quite know how to explain it, the guy’s like...

Justice in tight black pants.

He’s literally fighting off three guys at once, in total silence, jumping and twisting through the air like an Olympic gymnast. His face is covered in a black mask, only his mouth and chin is visible. But… She sucks air through her teeth. The rest of that outfit doesn’t leave much to the imagination.

The masked man kicks one of the muggers back in Gina’s direction. Without even thinking, she hits the dude with a high-heeled Jeté in the left kidney. He goes down with a painful moan. She kicks him in the other kidney for good measure, and plucks the stolen turquoise Marc Jacobs handbag from the thug’s nerveless fingers. 

Gina tosses the bag over to the girl. “Nice bag!” With grateful tears, the girl nods and takes off running.

She turns to see what else she can do, just as the masked man knocks the last guy out cold. “Call 911,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. Then he leaps upward to grab the edge of a fire escape and climbs toward the roof with the agility of a squirrel. A damn fine squirrel. “Unf,” she says as he disappears from view, biting her lip in appreciation.

One of the muggers groans again, and she delivers a well-placed kick to settle him back down.

* * *

Gina looks up after giving a scathing Yelp review, an itch between her shoulders. Something’s wrong. She scans the desks. Charles is clicking through something on the computer, deep in concentration. Amy is bent over a legal pad, filling the pages with fast, probably A+ cursive. Rosa is practicing taking her gun apart and putting it back together while scanning files. Jake’s nowhere to be seen, probably on a snack run. Scully and Hitchcock are staring off into space. Terry and Holt are in his office, having another meeting.

None of that is particularly out of the ordinary. But Gina knows these people, even if she doesn’t want to. Charles’s face is tense, his jaw tight, teeth grinding. Amy’s fingers clutch her pen so tightly that her badly bitten nails are white. Rosa is slamming the gun pieces together a touch too hard, the sound echoing across the room. Scully and Hitchcock have food in front of them, but they aren’t touching it. And Jake? His usual snack break time is an hour later than this.

Gina rolls her eyes. So no one’s made any headway on the cold cases—what’s the big deal? Teddybear Terry and Captain Carebear aren’t gonna do anything to the squad if they come up empty… 

Or is it about the bet? It’s only been two days. Are they all this ripped up about it? If this slow crime week continues, the stink of failure is gonna be unbearable in a few days. Hell, it already _is_ unbearable. She starts to text Matt, just to end the bet portion at least, when Jake walks in with a box of donuts.

He opens the box with a flourish, and two are gone before the lid completely lifts—Scully and Hitchcock can move like the wind when they want to. “Condolence Donuts, everyone!” He cocks his head. “Con-donuts?” He smirks and continues.”I am officially in the lead.” Then the box hits his desk like a mic drop. 

“You broke a cold case?” Amy asks, both proud and jealous. Normally, Gina would have something to say about that, but there’s _donuts_.

“Nah, better.” He strides over to the white board, flips it to the unused side, and writes _DD_ and underlines it. Then he writes _Jake - 1_ below it with a flourish.

“Oo!” Charles exclaims, not at the board, but at the donut box. “These are from _Dough_! Did you get hibiscus?”

Scully wipes a bit of pink from the side of his mouth. “Sorry,” he says through crumbs. Boyle shrugs and looks for another.

“Where’s your proof,” Rosa says, not moving from her desk.

Jake pulls a printed photo from his jacket and slams it on the board, securing it with a magnet. “There’s your proof.”

Amy, licking her fingers, walks up to the board and leans in close. “This is your proof?” Her frown is highly skeptical.

“Did you take the passionfruit, too?” Charles is drooping. Hitchcock hides the half-eaten donut behind a hand. 

“That is clearly a figure on the rooftop! I had to get my photo guy to enlarge and brighten it, but even you have to admit what’s right there.” He strikes a leaping pose in front of the board. “Dude was amazing.”

Gina gets up and takes a look at it. It might be Matt, it might not. The picture is too blurry to make out. “Eh.”

“Even Gina thinks it might be something!” Jake crows. 

“A resounding endorsement,” Amy snarks.

“For her!”

Gina just tunes them out, plucking a ginger donut from the box. If this is the best anyone can do, neither she—nor Matt—has anything to worry about.

* * *

_Six weeks ago_

The dive bar she’d found a couple weeks ago after helping the hottie in black kick some ass— _Josie’s_ read the awful red neon sign—was actually a pretty good pick-up joint. When you were in the mood for a certain kind of man. She’d walk in, all eyes turning toward her, both male and female, and she’d give them her signature ‘none of you are good enough for me, but you can _try_ ’ expression, and then she’d sit at the bar until someone proved interesting enough.

Tonight was almost a total repeat of every other time, all eyes on her. Except one set of eyes. Some dude sitting at the bar in a dark suit, nursing a drink. Not the usual clientele for this place, but neither is she. He looks familiar to her for a reason she can’t place, and that bothers her. So she endows the crowd with her acknowledgement and then saunters toward the bar, taking a seat beside the holdout. Glancing only a moment at his drink, she waves the bartender over. “Macallan 18, straight up.”

Her order earns her a slight tilt of the head and a half-smile, his reddish glasses flashing redder with the light from the sign in the window. “Good taste.” His voice is soft, dark like the amber liquid in his glass. “Little above my paygrade, but excellent choice.”

His eyes behind the glasses don’t focus on her, don’t really focus on anything, and she feels a little thrill. She’s never banged a blind guy before. That guy in high school with the 20/400 vision didn’t count. “But yet,” she says smoothly, sliding closer on the barstool, “you’re drinking a 30.”

His half-smile stills. “Good nose, too.”

“Good everything,” She says, shaking out her hair, but realizing halfway through that he can’t see that. She does it anyway, letting the strands brush his sleeve instead. She’s still trying to figure out why he seems familiar.

“I’m sure that’s true—coming from a knockout like you.” His smile widens fully. “Even a blind man can see _that_.”

“Knockout, huh?” He doesn’t know the half of it. “I’m more like a _force of nature_.”

Her drink arrives then, and she sips it, letting the pleasant burn slide down her throat for a few minutes. He does the same silently, waiting for her to speak again.

“So Mr. Above-My-Paygrade,” —she knows he’s telling the truth, his suit is clean but it’s so off-the-rack a discount store would mark it down— “why the Mac 30?”

“It reminds me of someone.” He pauses, swirling the liquor in his glass. “I guess I’m celebrating. I… I closed a case.”

“Lawyer?” She wrinkles her nose. Still, she can overlook that fault if he’s not a—

“Defense lawyer.” He lets out a deprecating laugh. “But one of the good ones. If there is such a thing.”

Gina snorts. “Yeah, right.” He’s too cute to dismiss, though, so she raises her glass. “To victories.”

He lifts his as well, and clinks it against hers. “To victories.”

When he leaves, his number in her phone, she watches him go with appreciation. Then it hits her. She doesn’t know how a shy but charming blind lawyer and Hell’s Kitchen’s vigilante could be the same guy, but somehow, they are. 

She never forgets a good ass.

* * *

Friday afternoon, everyone gathers around the secret flipside of the board—Holt is downtown sparring with Wuntch, Terry’s taken the twins to the doctor. Every name is up there now, having contributed some flimsy piece of information. Locations, more blurry photos, eyewitness testimony. To Gina’s dismay, competition is turning into cooperation. There’s a map of Hell’s Kitchen, with pins marking dates and times and locations. She even added in a couple herself, just to throw off suspicion. Wrong ones, of course.

“You see that?” Jake points to a grouping of pins. “He has a rotation. He starts out somewhere between West 44th and 47th and spirals out from there.” Jake’s really getting into this thing, as per usual.

“But if there’s a crime reported, he breaks the pattern.” Amy’s eyes are lighting up, too, as she keeps glancing his way. Would they just get a room? Jesus.

“Maybe he’s a cop,” Hitchcock says.

Flickers of surprise cross the faces of the group. “That’s—that’s actually genius!” Charles claps his hands together. “He’s always on the scene faster than the boys of the 18th. He must be using the police band.”

“Anyone can listen in,” Rosa reminds him. “But he knows what’s going down as fast as—or faster than—the police. And he always leaves the criminals for the cops to find instead of taking credit himself.”

“Why not do it in uniform, then?” Jake frowns. “I’d be working on my percentages for sure.”

“Not everyone’s a glory hound.” Amy says. “Some people take satisfaction in a job well done.” Jake shoots her a look so fond he may as well be a heart-eyes emoji. Disgusting.

Okay, that’s it. “So,” she says, pointing around at each of the group in a careless-seeming manner, “How are you guys, like, planning to split the winnings, then?”

“Spilt?” Charles asks.

“Or are you just laying out all this info for the lucky asshole who manages to get a picture first?” She walks up to Charles slowly and spears him in the chest with one long fingernail. “You think they’re gonna share the glory with you?” She looks each person in the face. “With any of you?”

“I would.” Charles’s voice is small.

Gina glances at her phone screen, as if she’d received a notification. “As for me…” She swipes and taps randomly on her Twitter feed. “...I’m going after a lead. On my _own_.”

Amy scoffs. “You have some sort of _app_ for finding him? Lemme guess, he checked in on Foursquare?”

Gina’s derision could melt glass. “I’ve got one word for you. Crowdsourcing.” She turns on her heel to grab her purse on the way out.

Behind her, she hears the satisfying sound of the board being re-hidden and the squad breaking up to work at their desks. And if anyone follows her, they won’t have full use of their limbs for a while.

* * *

_Three weeks ago_

_get ur fine #aa down 2 w 47th - ATM robbery. I’ll stall._ That’s all she has time to text before starting to spin her purse like a sling and stalking toward the thief. She’s in his blind spot—she has one shot to send him sprawling.

But Angel Ass drops down in front of him before her purse can connect. It only takes a moment, a series of punches and kicks that are too fast to analyze. Then the guy is sprawled unconscious and the terrified victim is shakily taking back their bank card and money. 

He looks up at Gina while crouching to bind the thief’s hands and feet. “Call this in.”

“Must have already been in the area.” He tilts his head up and frowns, his hands still in motion. She continues. “That was hella fast.”

“You need to call this in,” he repeats, ignoring her. Then he straightens and leaps upward to grab the edge of the building.

“I like that outfit better than the Famous Maker suit,” she calls after him. 

He pauses briefly, and then disappears from view.

“Much better.” _Then_ she calls it in.

She’s prepared to spend the next several days playing barfly at Josie’s, but it only takes one before he slides in beside her. “The suits are Kenneth Cole, by the way.”

“Uh uh uh.” She shakes her head sadly, then tongues the cocktail straw out of her mouth. “You must be a _lousy_ lawyer, AA, or you’d at least be able to afford suits from Macy’s.”

“We do a lot of pro bono work.” he says, unapologetic. Then he asks, half-amused, half-scared, “AA?”

She likes that. “Angel Ass. I pride myself on my ‘photogr-ass-ic memory.’” She taps the side of her eyes, now that she knows he can see it—or maybe not _see_ it, but sense it in some metaphysical way.

“I was going to ask how you figured it out…” He rubs a hand tiredly across his forehead. “How long until your friends at the 99th Precinct come calling?”

“Ten minutes after never. This isn’t their turf.” She shrugs. “Or their business.”

* * *

Gina walks in on Monday, fashionably late, to a scene of total chaos. The phones are ringing off the hook and the entire office is gathered in the briefing room, shouting excitedly. But Gina doesn’t rush. She saunters to her desk and sets down her purse, her jacket, checks to see if there are any interesting tweets since she checked it right before walking into the building, makes a fresh pot of coffee and then wanders over.

“So how did you get this lead?” Captain Holt is asking Amy, who puffs up with pride. “The Quaranta case has been cold for over twenty years.”

“An anonymous caller, sir. I was the only one still at my desk when the call came in.” She flips to a page in her yellow legal pad. “And the information checked out when I followed up. I was able to make a connection between that murder and some recent unsolved cases as well.”

“Excellent work, Detective Santiago.” Holt turns to the others. “I want all of you chasing down these leads, under Santiago’s direction.”

Gina clears her throat loudly over the sudden chatter. “Isn’t it, like, Monday?” she asks from where she leans against the door frame. “Make or break time.”

“Gina!” Amy complains, cutting her eyes furiously toward Holt.

“Please,” Holt says. “I know about your board, and your bet. In fact, I believe that having more than one task drove many of you to greater productivity this past week.” Terry nods beside him, arms crossed. “You may take a short break to declare a winner.”

“You’re welcome!” Jake’s smile is flinchingly wide.

“Anyone want to update their standings...” Charles turns the board around to reveal the progress so far. “...before the judging?”

Amy shakes her head. “I was too busy working on the Quaranta case all weekend.” 

Charles agrees. “I was busy, too, on my food blog—you know, there are a lot of hidden gems nestled among the rougher parts of Hell’s Kitchen.”

Jake gestures at his blurry photo from last Wednesday. “I stand by my submission.”

Rosa strides up and adds a photo. It’s grainy but much closer up than Jake’s. He pouts. “Got that one Saturday night.”

Hitchcock is right behind her, tacking up a Polaroid of Daredevil standing over the bodies of two unconscious thugs. It’s sharp and focused and there’s no doubt of the subject. “I took that.”

“With my camera,” Scully pipes up.

“Holy—” Charles starts. The group gathers around the photo with exclamations of interest. “How’d you get that?”

“Happened near our favorite food truck, just before they closed up for the night,” Hitchcock says. “Just good luck, I guess.”

“If I hadn’t ordered the leftovers special, we might have missed it,” Scully looks up dreamily, remembering. “I love that sandwich.”

“So it looks like we’ve got a winner!” Charles takes the photo from Hitchcock and starts to place it at the top—

“—Ahem.” Gina parts the crowd with imperious hands. “The ‘winner’ is right here.” She opens the gallery on her phone to reveal a selfie of Matt in his new red costume, from the neck down for anonymity, and Gina posing beside him making a peace sign. She’d promised him it was for the greater good, and he believed her. Gina Linetti does not rat out friends. Especially hot ass-kicking ones.

“That _cannot_ be real,” Amy says. “It’s an impersonator or something.”

“You pick that guy up at Manhattan Men?” Jake scoffs. 

Charles rubs his chin. “If you didn’t, he should apply, because _damn._ ”

“I wanna know where he works out,” Terry says.

Gina had half-expected this response, but she lays the affronted act on thick. “Oh, y’all don’t believe? I helped him take down a couple of muggers, and he let me take this as a keepsake and thank you.” She shuts down the screen. “But fine, give the award to Iron Stomach and Chow Down America over there.” She digs twenty bucks out of her pocket, tosses it toward Hitchcock, and walks off in a huff.

Behind her, she hears Holt say above the shouts of congratulations, “All right, detectives, back to the Quaranta case, please.”

Gina’s phone buzzes in her hand. She turns it back on—it’s Matt, her prize photo of AA’s red leather-clad ass as the contact photo, the second one he let her take. “Got plans for lunch?” The corner of her mouth lifts. Speak of the Devil.

“You free now?” She glances over her shoulder at the group settling back into their briefing. “I have got to get out of this place, pronto.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m already outside the station.”

Gina’s heart beats a little faster with excitement, and she bets he can hear it. God, she never thought a guy could live up to her exacting standards of amazingness, but Matt certainly does. “Be there in 3.”

She gives the contact photo a last fond glance before shoving the phone in her back pocket. The only thing better than that photo is seeing that Angel Ass in person.


End file.
